


Burning

by ACR



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:54:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9545318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACR/pseuds/ACR
Summary: Eliot is broken. But no one understands broken as well as Quentin does.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all. I haven't written shit for fanfiction since I was in high school so this is probably pretty rusty, but I really couldn't resist contributing to the small amount of Queliot fanfiction. Because I am trash.  
> TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF HARM. Can't stress that enough.

Anger and release. As far as Quentin was aware, this was the natural state of emotions that came to Eliot. A flash of anger in the eyes, a snide comment or two, and then the release. 

Quentin had never seen Eliot hold onto an emotion for longer than a few seconds. He was cool, and calm, and collected. It mystified Quentin, and was a source of great envy in him. As for his own emotions, they had never been in control for as long as he could remember. Always a roller coaster and never a carousel. Depression was always on the edge of the peripheral for him. It snuck up on him so quietly that it had overwhelmed him before he could even notice and react.

It wasn't that bad now. These days, he didn't need the false masks of happiness or contentedness or sanity. It came now in easier strides, but he wasn't foolish enough to ever pretend he would be better. It didn't work like that. Still, he had better support now that he didn't have back then. He had his friends, the school, magic.

And he had Eliot.

Eliot was a beacon of incredible stability. Even shot for shot, whatever drug he had consumed that day, Eliot held the composed exterior of snark and intelligence. It was something reliable even when this new world became unpredictable and frightening.

And that was why this scared him. Eliot was a mess. The mask that Quentin had maybe always been looking at, was cracking. That strength was falling to pieces. Mike's betrayal and subsequent death had been a hard blow for the team, and the school, in that it emphasized how much the Beast was willing to do to get to them. But perhaps it had effected no one else as much as Eliot. And Quentin couldn't quite put a finger on why. He had seen many men come and go from Eliots life, and Mike seemed barely more important except for his more... traumatic exit. And now Eliot was broken. There had to be something else going on.

Even Margo seemed blind, or maybe she wanted to be. Eliot was still himself in a lot of ways; intoxicated, brash. But his edges were rough now, his jokes were cruel. His once steely dark eyes now held pain and a wildness that seemed on the brink of something darker. Still, Quentin could only give Margo the benefit of the doubt. Maybe, just like him, she had never seen Eliot like this. Maybe she wasn't sure how to proceed either.

So, when nothing seemed to be getting done, Quentin decided that he needed to be that friend. Good friends speak up, he told himself. Still, Eliots composure scared him in the deepest way. Because it reminded Quentin of... well, it reminded him of himself. The thought of Eliot snapping completely was beyond scary. Without Eliot they might all be a ship without an anchor, lost in the chaos.

So Quentin decided now was the time to make the move.

The upcoming Saturday was the end of a round of testing at the school, and as usual, the Physical house was preparing to hold the biggest rager in North America to celebrate. It wasn't an ideal place to confront Eliot, but Quentin decided that a little bit of booze never hurt his own courage, and never failed to loosen up Eliot just a little bit.

Come Saturday, the party did not disappoint. Nearly every student at Brakebills had arrived at the house by the time Quentin came back from the library. The sun was setting and the alcohol and music were in full swing.

A bonfire graced the front yard as Quentin plowed up the cement walkway, a few Psychic kids were laying in the grass in a drug induced stupor, while many other students danced wildly around the flames. The music was positively deafening from outside the house, and worse still when he opened the door. He gracefully slipped in between dancing and stumbling bodies until he reached his room. He quickly dropped off his bag and books before returning to the fray and making his way to the bar. He took two shots of a vaguely fruity vodka and let his eyes browse through the crowds of people in the well lit commons areas.

A lot of faces he knew or recognized, looking droopy and inhibited by the free flowing alcohol, but no Eliot. After a minute of more intense looking, he finally spotted Margo lounging on a corner couch, talking to a man he didn't know and playing with his tie. But Eliot wasn't there, which wasn't rare for a party of this magnitude, but where Margo went Eliot usually followed. For a second, Quentin hesitated. The party had barely started, but was it possible that Eliot had already taken someone up to his room? Quentin felt his hopes dropping, but attempted to shake it off. He would keep trying.

He slipped back into the crowd and headed for Margo, brushing off a few classmates who tried to usher him over to a drinking game. When he reached her, she now had the strangers tongue in her mouth. Margo was nothing if not quick and to the point.

“MARGO,” he shouted over the music, attempted to pull her attention from her current... occupation. She flickered open an eye at him and he took that as acknowledgment, “WHERE'S ELIOT?”

She pointed upwards with the hand that wasn't currently wrapped around her suitor. Fuck. Eliot was in his room. “WITH SOMEONE?” He asked. She shrugged and continued what she was doing. Useless.

Quentin made his way towards the stairs, grabbing a nearby mystery cocktail and chugging it. It tasted like berries, and yet, with a slight spicyness. He ditched the glass on the banister as he ascended the stairs, steeling himself. Important conversations had never been his strong suit. He was occasionally... non-confrontational. But this was important. The good news was, the booze seemed to be kicking in, and he felt his inhibitions leaving him one stair at a time.

In the upstairs hallways, it was far less crowded. He passed a few students busy making out in darker corners, and someone puking in the hallway bathroom, before he finally reached Eliots door. The downstairs music was now a deep and muffled sound, and a gentler tune was floating out from Eliots room. Quentin listened for any sounds that could be sex related, but heard nothing but music. He considered knocking, and then just decided to walk right in.

Nothing could have prepared him for the state of Eliots room.

The vanity mirror had been shattered, glass strewn across his desk and floor. His soft reading chair was flipped, stuffing coming out from the seat cushion. Clothes were strewn everywhere, a hole had been punched out of the wall, and the mattress was now on the floor. On said mattress, sat Eliot in a maroon silk robe, hair disheveled. Gentle somber music played from a nearby speaker while Eliot, lit cigarette in mouth, burned a hole into his palm with a lighter, his eyes staring empty and unfeeling.

“Do you ever knock?” He muttered without looking up, smoke puffing from his nose. He didn't even flinch when Quentin opened the door.

Quentin moved surprisingly fast. He wasn't unfamiliar with self harming tendencies, but the pure adrenaline that whipped through him to see it from the other end sent him into a full panic. He crossed the room and pulled the lighter rather aggressively from Eliots hand and clicked it shut, tossing it into the messy clothes pile across the room. Eliot continued looking at his hands, even when the lighter left them, as if this was only a minor inconvenience.

His heart racing, Quentin stood over Eliot. They were frozen like that for maybe a full minute, uncomfortable silence creeping around them. Finally, Eliot stood up, wobbling slightly as he did. Now that he was closer, Quentin realized that he smelled so strongly of liquor it was almost intoxicating in its own way. Eliot crossed the room and shut the bedroom door that had been left open in Quentins wake, before turning and going into his private bathroom. Quentin stood awkwardly, unsure how to proceed. What do you say to someone you just caught harming themselves? That train of thought was suddenly dashed when he heard Eliot violently retching from the bathroom, and he was overwhelmed with the urge to just take care of his drunk friend.

He entered the bathroom cautiously, seeing the dark haired body slumped over the toilet. He ignored him for a moment, deciding instead to rifle through the bathroom drawers. He pushed aside condom boxes and hair gel, and finally found a small first aid kit. He removed burn cream and ace bandages, before taking a position crouched onto the floor by his friend. The stench of booze and vomit entered his nose as he approached, but he fought through the urge to gag and reached for Eliots left hand, which was luckily not the main hand cradling his body to the toilet seat. He found no resistance, and brought the palm towards him, examining the injury. It was a painful looking burn, but not as bad as it could have been. Quentin had perhaps got there just in time. He opened the tube of cream, smearing it gently into his palm. Eliot flinched in pain, whimpering, and Quentin felt his heart wrench. He wrapped the hand quickly and tightly before setting it gently back to its place on the toilet seat.

For a moment he just sat. He couldn't see Eliots face from where it was, mostly hidden in the toilet. His hair was drenched in sweat and his body slumped in the saddest possible way. He began to retch again, and Quentin took it as a sign to get up.

He returned to the bedroom and examined the mess, a bit overwhelmed by it. But he took a deep breath and started cleaning. He put the mattress back onto its frame, magically fixed the mirror, then wall, then seat cushion. He returned the chair to its place in the corner of the room, and then began shoving clothing at least back into the closet. The room was far from perfect, but it was at least a normal looking mess when Eliot emerged from the bathroom.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, observing. His face looked pale and his eyes more sunken and dark than usual. His robe was open, revealing his pale body. Quentin almost blushed, and then noticed that Eliots lower stomach and thighs were littered with burn marks, just like the one on his hand. Quentin felt sick. When Eliot realized where his eyes were, he quickly closed his robe and cleared his throat.

“Are you here to blow me?” He said with an icy and slurred voice.

“Wh- what?” Quentin stuttered, caught off guard.

“Because if you aren't here to blow me,” He crossed the room and gently laid down on the bed, “Then get the fuck out of my room.”

Quentin considered it. He considered leaving and pretending this had never happened, and maybe they could just move on as friends. But then he thought about this quickly breaking form in front of him. Eliot was trying to stay distant and calm, but it was only because Quentin had caught him in a vulnerable position. And in that way, he had the upper hand.

“No.” He said sternly, surprising himself.

Eliot slowly sat up with raised brows, a sneer on his face, “Little Q, are you challenging me? Really?”

His words were more and more slurred despite their articulation. Quentin suddenly realized that although he was familiar with Eliots drinking style, he had never seen him like this. Never wobbly, let alone slurring and puking. He must have drank a lot, or mixed a few too many things together. He gathered up these feelings and sat down on the end of the bed.

“We need to talk about this,” He reached for Eliots bandaged hand but he jerked it back.

Despite being drunk, his reflexes were as impossibly fast as usual. Eliot went from a sitting position to on his knees, and straddling Quentin before he could even realize what was happening. Suddenly, he found himself on his back, Eliot on hands and knees leering over him. The two locked eyes, and Eliots were full of rigid challenge. They sat like that, gentle acoustics drifting around them, the room rumbling softly from the dance music downstairs, for a long moment. Quentin felt an involuntary twitch in his pants that was stifled by the smell of alcohol coming off Eliot in waves.

“Eliot,” He finally said, breaking the tension, “I care about you. And I want-”

His voice hitched as Eliot leaned down, his dark stubble scratching his own, as he licked a line down his jaw. He found Quentins ear and breathed into it, “I just want you to care about fucking me.”

This was too much for him. He frowned and grabbed Eliot by the waist and, with his own reflexes mixed with frustration and booze and lingering adrenaline, he flipped Eliot onto his back and stood up.

“Could we have a real fucking conversation please?” He said, the blush in his face and irritation bubbling into a little more anger of an ourburst than he meant.

Eliot sat up slowly, chuckling to himself. But his eyes were the same dead that had graced them when Quentin had first entered the room. He stared down at his hands, his body shaking with laughter. But after a moment, they turned into violent sobs.

Quentin was frozen with shock. He had never seen his friends face exhibit this much emotion that wasn't theatrical. Tears streamed down his pale cheeks and his mouth gaped open in honest anguish. It killed him a little, to see his friend so completely sad and broken.

“I'm sorry, I just want to not feel this,” Eliot wailed. He choked on his words and took a few deep breaths, desperatley trying to calm himself down and completely failing, just crying harder. “Fuck, please leave.”

“No,” Quentin said again, but this time with a gentle softness that he didn't really understand in himself. He sat back down on the bed, and pulled Eliot into his arms. And Eliot sobbed harder.

They sat like that for a long while, and time kind of lost meaning. Song after song passed by in the air around them before Eliot slowly stopped shaking so hard. Quentin loosened his grip a bit, but started stroking Eliots hair and back. They sat like that for even longer. After maybe thirty, forty five minutes, Eliot slowly pulled back. He gripped Quentins shoulders, and stared at him with a new, more sober, intensity. His eyes were bloodshot and puffy.

“I had to kill Mike.” He said with certainty in his voice. Still, his eyes reflected a kind of fear.

Quentin didn't say anything, but he felt his eyebrows involuntarily rise. Everything seemed to click in his brain. The dean hadn't told him much about Mikes death beyond cold facts that he needed to know. His stomach churned with a new sadness, and he realized what the emotion in Eliots face was. He was afraid that Quentin wouldn't understand. That Quentin would judge him, or leave him, or betray his needs. And he was prepared for it to happen.

“You saved everyone.” He finally whispered, his voice quiet but sure. He meant it.

Eliot stared at him, processing what this meant. New tears formed in his eyes and then gently streamed down his face, and a slow understanding stretched over him. He knew that Quentin would not leave him.

“I need to be clean,” He slurred, the drunkness seeming to come back to him. He stood up, stumbling to the bathroom. Quentin frowned and followed him, certain that his friend would crash down with even the smallest of weights. Eliot started undressing very slowly, and Quentin realized he was going to try to shower, which seemed like a bad idea, but he helped him by turning on the hot water. His eyes lingered over to Eliot, naked and clutching the sink to stay standing up. His stomach clenched as he realized that he couldn't let this drunk moron shower alone or he'd probably find a way to drown. Or fall and hit his head, and then drown.

He sighed and undressed, avoiding the feeling of Eliots prying eyes on him and convincing himself that his drunk friend probably wouldn't remember most of this tomorrow. He ushered him into the shower and then followed.

It was a surprisingly big shower, honestly.

The hot water ran over them, and for a moment Quentin just relaxed and let that be enough. Eliot faced the water, holding himself up with his palms against the wall in front of him. He shook a bit, and Quentin wondered if he was crying again. He pumped some shampoo into his hand, and washed Eliots hair carefully, his friend leaning affectionately into the touch. Eliot eventually turned around, letting the suds wash out and holding himself up by gripping Quentins shoulders, his eyes closed as the water rushed over him. Quentin took the opportunity to look over his body, examining the wounds. Some of the burn marks were older, maybe a few weeks, and others looked only a few days old, varying in severity. Quentin thought about the long healed scars on his own wrists, but only for a moment.

“I just wanted to feel something else,” Eliot said suddenly. Quentin snapped his view up and found Eliot looking down at him with vulnerability in his eyes, “A different pain.”

“I know.”

They looked at each other, communicating a lot without speaking. I know because I've been there and I don't judge you and thank you's and please don't leave.

And then suddenly, it said something very different. Eliot took a step closer and Quentin was very aware of how close they were, arms all over each other. His face became red and his body tightened.

“We should get out,” He said quickly, breaking the eye contact and stepping backwards, “Before the hot water makes you faint or something.”

Eliot nodded and turned off the water, and the two got out. Quentin wrapped himself in a towel first, before finding one for Eliot. The tension had vanished as quickly as it came, and he went back to caretaker, towel-drying Eliots hair while he fumbled with brushing his own teeth. Quentin found his t-shirt and his underwear again, and then retrieved some clean boxers for his friend.

He felt guilt building in his stomach. He couldn't believe he had even considered kissing Eliot for a moment, when he was in such a vulnerable position. Even the thought felt like an abuse of power. Eliot probably wouldn't remember much of tonight, despite how much Quentin hoped he had helped him.

Eliot flopped into the bed, hair damp and poofy, looking more comfortable and happy than he had been earlier. Quentin fetched a glass of water from the bathroom sink. He insisted that his friend drank the whole thing, while he walked over to the remainder of his clothes and began putting them back on.

“Are you leaving?” Eliot choked out. Quentin looked back at him, sitting in bed holding the water, new color in his face, and an uneasy fear in his eyes.

“Do you want me to stay?” He asked honestly. Eliot took a moment before nodding, and Quentin set his pants back down on the floor. He walked over to the wall, turning off the light, before crossing the room and crawling under the sheets with Eliot. He supposed there was no harm in laying with him until he fell asleep. It was too loud for him downstairs to sleep anyway.

The two faced each other in the darkness, listening to all the lingering party sounds from downstairs. The light from outside was creating just enough illumination in the room that Quentin could see all the curls in Eliots hair. For a while they just laid there, breathing, and then he felt his friend reach out and hold his hand. He gripped it with as much reassurance as he could muster.

“I'm sorry I'm pathetic,” Eliot said, scoffing at himself, “And you have to take care of me like I'm a messy child.”

“Don't apologize,” He squeezed his hand, “I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. I was so obsessed with how all this affected me I didn't... Bother thinking about you. I'm sorry.”

Eliot was quiet for a minute, letting it all wash over them. Quentin realized that he was suddenly very tired, but in the best way. He was comfortable and... happy. Even if he didn't really know how they would ever move forward from here. The future was a mystery but, with Eliot here, they would get through it, and he was confident of that.

“I want to kiss you really badly,” Eliot said. Quentin blushed very hard in the darkness, and was glad that they couldn't see each others faces.

“That's not a good idea.”

“Why?” Eliot asked, “Because of Alice?”

“No,” he said, and he honestly meant it, “You're... so drunk, and feeling a lot of emotions right now. I know that I'm taking care of you, and that seems like a lot, but I don't want that to affect what you do.”

Another silence. And then;

“What if I still want to kiss you when I'm sober?”

Quentin laughed, “If you still want to kiss me after tonight, then I promise we can figure it out.”

That seemed to be enough for Eliot. He was quiet and they kept laying there, letting the music lull them back into relaxation. After a while, Quentin closed his eyes. And even though he had every intention of going to his own bed after Eliot fell asleep, in the dark peaceful place they were in, he drifted to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! Definitely expect more Magicians stuff from me in the future. This was just to dip my toes in.  
> I wrote a smutty after ending that I will also post but you can also just... stop here and thats fine. :)


End file.
